Prologue
The footsteps of padded boots echoed across the meadows on the far eastern border of Lothlórien.
Rushed and snatchy footsteps, for the bearer of those iron-capped boots was staggering and zigzagging, tumbling over roots and broom. Every now and then, his clothes got caught on the low scrubland but he did not care, since his soft leather jerkin, as well as his coat and pants, were already badly torn and hanging from him in shreds. Blood covered his hands and face but it was not his own, though he wished it was.
His dark eyes roamed the grassland, searching desperately for something but before him lay nothing but the vast, dry lands of the Field of Celebrant, the long, stiff grass swaying lazily in a dull breeze that came from the South, bringing the first carriers of summer.
Pollen burst into the air and danced around his head as he rushed through a field of dandelion and glimmered in the light of the settling sun above the Misty Mountains in the far West. He saw none of that beauty. A sight he could not forget had rooted in his head, a sight that had burned itself deep into his mind and poisoned it with every living hour and haunted him. A sight, that made him flee in fright and drove him to places unknown for he did not have a home anymore.
He still saw it clear before him.
The dark gate lingered far above their heads, towering over them like a deadly foe from ancient times. As he looked up, a shudder ran down his spine and his feet suddenly felt heavy as plumb.
"This is folly, Thrór", Nár muttered under his breath, glaring up at the lingering death that awaited them at the top of the stairs.
Dimrill Dale lay quietly in his back, the distant gurgling of the waterfall crashing down into the beautifully glistening surface of the lake Mirrormere barely reached the ears of the two Dwarves, who stood at the foot of a large staircase, once carved into the stone by skilled hands.
"There is no way on this earth, that we can reclaim those Mountains by ourselves. Let us return and gather an army big enough to drive the Orcs out", he continued, looking up to his King and most trusted friend.
"Can you see it, Nár? Can you feel it? The presence of Durin still lingers in this place", Thrór replied dreamy, gazing up at the mountain. The King of Erebor had grown old, time gnawing on his face, his grey beard and the withered armour, forged from the finest metals and the glorious Mithril that still shone bright in the sunlight.
"He once walked in this valley, right where we are standing", the King seemed in a daze and Nár stepped a little closer, worried about his old companion.
"Let's go home", he said softly.
"Home?" Thrór finally turned to him, an unreadable expression on his face. "And where is that? Erebor is lost to us but this place. This place, right here, this is where we righteously belong!"
Thrór's gaze fell on the mountain again and his eyes glistened feverish.
"I am of Durin's line", he solemnly declared and Nár sighed quietly. "This is my homeland. Before us lie the Halls that Durin had built, I can no longer let Orcs savage them and linger in them, don't you understand that, my friend?"
"I do", Nár replied and once again eyed the large black gate. "I just don't think we should be here alone. Please Thrór, for the love of Mahal, let us return to our kin and gather an army. Take your son with you, your grandsons even, fight side by side with them to reclaim this once glorious kingdom, but please do not enter on your own."
"I have no choice", the great King smiled and began to climb the stairs, his heavy armour clangouring with every step he made.
Nár watched him for a while; his feet still tied firmly to the ground and he felt his knees trembling violently. "Thrór?" he quietly called out but was of course unheard. He did not dare to raise his voice, for nobody knew what really lingered in those deep chasms now. Nobody knew of the great terror that dwelled in the halls of Khazad-dûm.
After a little while, he finally plucked up the courage to follow the King. Looking back over his shoulder, Nár watched the peaceful valley below as he ascended the stairs and wished to be somewhere else entirely. Being loyal to his beloved King, he would have followed Thrór anywhere and he hadn't hesitated even for a second, when his old friend had asked him to come along on this quest, no matter how hopeless it was. But he had secretly and silently hoped, that Thrór might change his mind along the way.
He found Thrór by the gate, astonished and curious as a little child. The great East-gate to Moria stood ajar, the gap big enough for a Dwarf to squeeze through but the darkness that lingered behind it was all but inviting. A cold draft came from the depth of the Halls beyond, the scent of decay and murder carried out with it and Nár's stomach turned.
"This is a sign", Thrór muttered. "A sign by Durin himself for us to finally reclaim what is ours."
"We do not know what awaits us in there. Thrór, for the last time, please, we should not be here. Not now, not alone. Let us return", Nár tried once again, his voice already pleading.
Thrór stared into the deep, never-ending black that lurked behind the gate, mesmerized and bewitched by some dark magic, Nár was sure of it.
"I must leave you now", Thrór finally muttered and Nár stared at him, bewildered by his words. "This is my burden. My fate, my glory."
The old King smiled and when he finally looked at his companion one more time, Nár saw the madness in his eyes, the quiet sickness that had begun to befall Thrór while he had still dwelled in Erebor. A sickness of the mind, so vile and pestilent, that nobody had ever found a cure for it.
"Thrór, please! Can't you hear me anymore? I am begging you, do not enter through this gate but come back home with me! Come home for your people, your son, please!" Nár's voice trembled with fear and despair.
"Wait here for me, my old friend. I shall return to you", Thrór smiled. "But for now, farewell my dear Nár. Farewell and do not fear for me."
Nár watched in terror as his King disappeared through the gate, swallowed by the darkness behind it.
The days grew long and the nights dark and terrifying. The old Dwarf had settled at the foot of the stairs, hidden from sight and he waited. And waited, and waited. Nár never dared to make a fire for he feared the ever-watchful eyes in the dark, searching and haunting him in his sleep. He heard the whispers and screams in the night, witnessed the quiet killing and bloodshed around him, he heard them sniff and felt them scowl and he pulled his cloak tighter around his trembling body. And still he waited.
It was a mild night, when the dark East-gate opened one more time. Crickets were chirping and Mirrormere lay quiet, except for the silent splashing of the waterfall that gushed down the Dimrill Stairs. Nár startled and peeked from his hiding spot.
Up by the gate stood three Orcs. One of them was particularly large and his pale skin shone in the moonlight like millions of diamonds. The broad chests and shoulders covered a fourth creature and no matter how hard Nár tried to look, no matter how much he squeezed his eyes, he could not catch the cowering figure amidst those three abominations. A blade glistened in the white light and it wasn't long until Nár heard the tearing of flesh and veins and the scrunching of bones.
He watched bewildered and listened nauseated, not daring to make a sound or step from his hideout.
When the Orcs finally stepped aside, Nár's heart stopped beating in his chest. The familiar armour glistened red, the blue cloak and the crest of the House of Durin were stained and torn, the white beard adust and not a muscle moved in the old, broken limbs anymore.
They flung Thrór's abused and shattered body down the stairs and Nár cried out in pain, when the severed head of his beloved King toppled down behind the corpus. Nothing could have held the pure soul back anymore and Nár broke away from his lair and rushed towards the stairs, not caring if he was seen or not.
His hands trembled as he reached out for the defiled body of his King and tears were streaming down his face when he knelt beside the broken corpse, drawing white tracks on his dirt stained cheeks.
"No", he whispered under his breath, as he carefully picked up Thrór's head. He cried out once again and nearly dropped the head like he had burned himself on it. Dwarvish runes were carved deeply into the King's forehead, glistening red in the dim light. Thrór's dead eyes stared up at Nár, as he read the name that had been scored into flesh and skin.
Heavy steps ripped the old Dwarf from his daze and when he looked up, he saw the white Orc towering above him. Agitated, he pressed the head of his King against his chest and stared up at the monster.
"Take my life!" he bellowed. "Take my life but make it quick and be done with it for I will no longer feel anything anymore!"
The Orc watched him curiously, a grim smirk tugging at the corner of his pale lips.
"Your life is of no worth to me, beggar", he snarled and tossed a small purse, made from dark leather, at the Dwarf by his feet. "Take this and run. Run as quick as your feet can carry you and deliver this message to your kin. Your King is slain. Moria is mine."
Nár stared at the purse before him. He reached out for it with trembling fingers and it felt startlingly heavy when he lifted it from the ground, coins clinking inside. He carefully raised Thrór's head up to his face and pressed a tender kiss to the bleeding forehead, before he gently put the head down again, neatly beside the torn body.
As he got up to his feet, he clutched the purse close to his chest.
"Run", the white Orc growled one last time.
While his feet thundered down on the green, soft grass that covered the banks of the Silverlode, he heard their voices in his back, the yelling and shouting and the horrible orders, the pale Orc bellowed across the valley.
"Cut him up! Tear his flesh and feed it to the ravens until none is left of the great King under the Mountain!"
And he heard the cutting and slicing and he ran blinded by tears, staggering and crying beneath the silver light of the moon, wondering when Mahal had turned his back on his creation.
The purse with the coins still jingled on his belt when he dashed through the high grass of the Riddermark, running as if the terrors of that night were after him like predators, hunting him into his grave. He had passed the Limlight and before him lay the vast fields of Rohan.
A child stood on top of a narrow hill, the fluff on its upper lip tickling its skin and it pulled a face and scratched the tip of its nose. Whether it was a boy or a girl was not recognizable, for the formerly pretty clothes hung down in rags and were stained and dirty, the fuzzy-head uncombed and unbraided and its face was covered in the dust of the Mark.
When it spotted the old Dwarf in the distance, it blinked irritated and then turned on its heel.
"Mama!" the thin voice echoed across the grass. "Mama! There's someone coming!"
It stirred up a small company of travellers and they all craned their necks to spot the intruder, leaving their daily business be for the moment. All of them looked rugged and shabby and their small, sturdy frames clearly gave them away as Dwarves.
Before Nár reached the camp, fatigue and heartache overcame him and he collapsed, his body slumping into the long grass and disappearing entirely. Finally the nightmares had taken their toll on him. Finally the gruesome images that had burned themselves deep into his memory had defeated him. And the old Dwarf lay in the swaying grass of the Riddermark and his last thoughts went out to his King and Commander before everything turned black.